


Wanted: One Flatmate, Hold the Spy

by reveling_in_mayhem



Series: Eyeballs in the Microwave [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, asip retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24389908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveling_in_mayhem/pseuds/reveling_in_mayhem
Summary: At first, John had been perfect because he was so common. He was a little interesting, what with the psychosomatic limp (long gone now) and all the signs of being an adrenaline junkie, but when it came down to it he was common. He’d pay his share of the rent, ignore Sherlock, and they’d do their own thing. He had also been fairly sure he’d do more than his share of cleaning thanks to his military background. So: perfect.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Eyeballs in the Microwave [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761142
Comments: 14
Kudos: 116





	Wanted: One Flatmate, Hold the Spy

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock demanded that his side of the story be told and who am I to deny the detective in the funny hat?

Baker Street was absolutely perfect. It was central to everywhere he could possibly want to be, it was already furnished, and he knew for a fact that Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t mind the odd hours he kept. Thanks to her evening herbal soothers, he could commit a murder in the flat above her head and she would sleep right through it. Not that he would, of course. But he could.

The problem was his meddling older brother. In some deep and ignored part of him, he knew his brother meant well, but that didn’t stop him from resenting being treated like a child. In order for Sherlock to have unrestricted access to criminal investigations, Mycroft required he find a flatmate. The man held enough sway over the government that he could keep him away regardless of whether or not he was called upon by the powers that be. It was hateful, and Sherlock was loath to admit it was his own fault for poor choices made in his not so distant youth that his brother held such power over him, but there it was. 

Therefore, it was in his best interest to find his own flatmate and quick. If he didn’t find one, Mycroft would find one for him, which essentially meant Sherlock would have his own live-in spy. Honestly, Sherlock envied lesser minds and those with easier lives. It was an infinitesimally small number of individuals that had to deal with being spied on by their family, and an even smaller number that had the help of an entire developed country and its national security to do so.

It was with all this in mind that he planted the seed of him needing a flatmate in the ear of any who would listen. Earlier that day he had mentioned that he must be a hard man to find a flatmate for to Mike Stamford, and a mere 4 hours later, Mike had hand-delivered a handsome little package right to the lab. 

A doctor, judging by his comment when he entered the room with Mike. But oh, not just a doctor, an army doctor. One that was recently invalided home, which went some way towards explaining why the man would be in need of a flatshare, to begin with. All the signs were there for Sherlock to read off of him. The man was a walking children’s picture book to Sherlock’s eye with his military haircut, tan lines, and a cane for an obviously psychosomatic limp. 

The limp was interesting, and Sherlock filed that away for later dissection. It wasn’t important at the moment and could be dealt with in the future. Right now he needed to draw this man in. Use the information he read off of him to his advantage. 

A quick deduction, an address and a name, a wink (people seemed to like it when he winked), and he was out the door and off to his old flat to finish packing and move into Baker Street that evening. He would win over the doctor, he was sure of it, and Mycroft would have to back off. 

*

Luckily, most of his possessions were already packed in boxes and ready to be moved. Unfortunately, there was simply no way that Sherlock could move all of his books and laboratory equipment, not to mention his clothes and case files and papers he needed for his work, on his own. He considered calling Mycroft to help, or rather have him send some people to help, but quickly shook off the idea. He didn’t need anything from his brother. Instead, he made his way out the door and put out feelers through his Homeless Network. Anyone who helped him move would get 50 quid. 

He had a handful of people in practically no time at all to help him load the boxes onto a rental that he had procured. They loaded the boxes and met him at Baker Street a bit later to move them into the new flat. Money changed hands, and then he went to work unboxing everything. 

He didn’t sleep that night. There were too many boxes to unload and he needed to set up his bedroom before he could even think about sleeping in there. He’s fairly sure he did pass out at some point on the soft leather sofa that he had pushed against the wall, but that didn’t really count. 

Around noon, his mobile began to ring. He knew better than to ignore the fourth call. Ignore that one, and a sleek black car would be found parked by the kerb in front of his new flat, and that was simply unacceptable. He pulled the phone out and answered it.

“What do you want?” he snapped without bothering to look at the caller ID.

“What makes you think I want anything?” the oily voice of his brother came through his earpiece and he rolled his eyes.

“You never call this many times unless you want something. What is it?” he sneered.

“I just happened to notice that you seem to have moved into the flat at...221B Baker Street,” his brother replied, pausing deliberately over the address as if he didn’t know exactly where Sherlock was at almost any given point in time. He didn’t bother replying and was awarded by an annoyed huff of breath a moment later. “Did you find a flatmate?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, completely confident in his assessment of John Watson and that he would sign the lease papers by the end of the day.

His brother was quiet for several moments. “Well, I look forward to meeting this person,” he eventually replied.

“I’m sure you do,” Sherlock answered, then hung up and slid the mobile back into his pocket. 

He did a turn in the middle of the sitting room. Already the flat felt more like home than his old one ever did, but there was something missing. He frowned in thought as he stared at the mantelpiece above the cold fireplace. 

Ah! Billy was missing. He went to the bedroom he had claimed as his own and rummaged around in one of the few unpacked boxes left there until he pulled out the familiar skull. He carried it into the sitting room and placed it on the left corner of the mantelpiece. Billy grinned at him in approval of his new spot and Sherlock smiled. Perfect.

Now he just needed to sign some paperwork with his previous landlord. Maybe find something to do to mess with Lestrade. He had seen the papers and knew what the man was working on. He was annoyed that the DI hadn’t come to him for help yet, especially after he had managed to send off those texts. Clever bit of technology, that, and he didn’t even bother to text him back. Well. It was only a matter of time. 

He made his way out of the flat and out the door. He needed to meet John this evening to show him the flat, and he had things to do before that.

*

When he met John later that evening, he was in an almost giddy mood. He had ended his previous lease with no issue, had managed to convince Molly Hooper to save him some fantastic specimens down at Barts, it was only a matter of time before DI Lestrade came to him for help with these serial suicides, and now he was going to sign a new lease with his new flatmate in his fantastic new flat. Honestly, it was one of the better days he had had in quite a while. The only thing that could make it better would be a triple homicide in a locked room, but he was content enough to not be greedy at the moment. 

John seemed interested in the flat, despite his comment on the mess. Sherlock started sorting out papers and shoving them into neater piles. He could be tidier if he needed to be. 

Mrs. Hudson began talking to John, and he felt a momentary flash of guilt after she pointed out that there was a second bedroom upstairs. Even though he knew the man’s limp was psychosomatic, he could have left the downstairs bedroom for him. He needed to win the doctor over, and having to climb up two sets of stairs just to get to his bedroom was probably not very helpful to his cause. 

But then John did the completely unexpected.

“Actually, I’m not sure I will be taking the upstairs bedroom,” John replied to her. 

Sherlock spun to face him so quickly from where he had been facing the sofa that he felt his hair whip across his forehead.

“Why ever not?” he exclaimed in surprise. John blinked at him, bewilderment evident in his features. 

Mrs. Hudson looked flustered at the sudden turn in the conversation and tossed her hands in the air. “I’m going back to my flat so you two can have your little domestic in private. Don’t be too loud dears,” she proclaimed as she headed out the door and down the stairs. 

They both watched after her for a moment before John turned back to him. 

“Well, for one thing, we hardly know each other,” the doctor replied.

“What does that have to do with anything? We’re going to share a flat, not get married,” Sherlock countered. “Though in fairness, arranged marriages actually have a significantly lower percentage of divorce, so even if I was proposing marriage rather than a flatshare, the numbers would be on our side.” Oh, maybe not the best argument to make if it was Mrs. Hudson’s insinuation that they wouldn’t need two bedrooms. If that was something that made him uncomfortable. 

“What?” John asked bemusedly. 

“I hate repeating myself. I’m trying to explain that statistically sharing a flat with a relative stranger,” he began but was cut off by the sound of heavy footsteps running up the stairs. Ah, Lestrade. He glanced at John, though his attention was turned towards the opened door of the flat. 

“What’s different?” he demanded, turning to face the DI as soon as he crossed the threshold. 

“You know how they don’t leave notes? This one did,” Lestrade replied quickly. “Will you come?” 

Oh, he’s desperate. Sherlock hesitated a moment, his gaze flickering to John again before he turned back to the silver-haired man and nodded. “I’ll follow behind. Where at?” 

Lestrade rattled off a location, and Sherlock waited until he left before spinning on the spot, and he can’t help it, he really can’t, so he spun around and did an excited little jump in the air. All that pent up giddiness from before has an outlet, and he was out the door and halfway down the stairs before he realized that he was missing an amazing opportunity. 

John had said he wasn’t sure about taking the room and that was unacceptable. He needed John to take the room. So, he would show John that him taking the room was a good decision. He climbed back up the stairs and back into the flat.

“You’re a doctor,” he stated as soon as his eyes landed on John.

“I was a doctor,” John corrected him quickly.

“You are an army doctor,” Sherlock repeated, ignoring the way the man’s jaw tensed. “Saw a lot of injuries. Violent deaths. Had your share of trouble too, I’d wager.”

“Yes, of course. Far too much,” he said. 

“Want to see some more?” Sherlock asked and almost smiled when he saw the way John’s eyes lit up at the invitation.

“Oh God, yes,” the doctor said, and Sherlock did smile then. 

*

In the taxi, John kept throwing him sideways glances until he finally rolled his eyes and turned to look at him. 

“You have questions,” he stated and listened to John as he began talking.

He couldn’t help the smirk that came to his face during their conversation, all the way to the point that John made the mistake of calling him an amateur. 

And he really couldn’t help it. He let out a string of deductions about John. Explained how he knew he was a soldier, a doctor, his psychosomatic limp, his therapist, and his alcoholic brother who had left his wife.

He turned away to look out the window, mentally cursing himself as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. He needed John to take the upstairs room, and here he was letting his mouth run away with him in a way that everyone hated. People hated it when he deduced them like that. Why had he…

“That…”

_Here it comes_ , thought Sherlock, mentally kicking himself.

“...was amazing.”

Sherlock’s thoughts screeched to a halt. Did John just say what he thought he said? He risked a glance at the man seated beside him.

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John huffed a laugh at that and turned his head away to hide his smile. Sherlock turned to hide his smile as well.

They both fell quiet after that and remained that way for the remainder of the taxi ride. Sherlock found himself in the rather unanticipated situation of being surprised by someone. No one had ever called his deductions extraordinary before. Especially when they were about them. That was...different. Interesting. He glanced at the smaller man beside him, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but then the taxi pulled up outside the crime scene and they climbed out of the car and made their way to the police tape.

“How did I do?” he asked, unable to quell his desire to know if all of his deductions had been accurate.

John confirmed everything he had deduced and Sherlock gave a pleased smile.

“I didn’t expect to get everything right,” he said.

“Harry’s short for Harriet,” John revealed and Sherlock stopped short.

“Harry’s your sister. Sister! It’s always something,” he bit off, annoyed at getting something wrong.

The presence of Sergeant Donovan at the tape didn’t help his mood, but he breezed past her and brought John along without much trouble. They made their way up to the scene, and it was another moment with Lestrade to ensure that John would be allowed in, as if the detective inspector would actually make a stand against him, and he couldn’t help the smile that rose to his lips when the DI gave in even quicker than he expected. He must be truly desperate.

When John was dressed in the provided suit, they made their way into the room, and immediately things started coming together for him. He crossed over to the body, pulling on latex gloves, and he was already taking in the details that he knew that idiot Anderson had missed. He noticed in his periphery that John was standing rather awkwardly, leaning on his cane, while he watched him. 

This was perfect! He needed John to want to move in. He had already declared that he needed an assistant. If he could pull John into the Work, he was positive he could convince him to take the flatshare. The doctor was clearly wasting away where he was, and if Sherlock could give him some kind of purpose…yes, this could work. He called John over, and though the man was a bit snippy at first, he did as Sherlock asked and gave his medical opinion on the victim. Sherlock stood up and began to explain to Lestrade everything he had seen. John stared up at him from his crouch on the floor, eyes wide and watching him intently, before he stood as he continued his deductions. 

“That’s brilliant,” John declared, and Sherlock paused a moment before his brain caught up with his mouth again, and he continued. 

“That’s fantastic,” the doctor exclaimed after another deduction, and Sherlock turned to look at him.

“Are you aware you do that out loud?”

“Sorry, I’ll shut up,” John replied, looking away in embarrassment, but that wasn’t what Sherlock meant to happen at all.

“No, it’s...fine,” he said, and John glanced up at him again.

He picked up his string of deductions, and when the DI couldn’t produce the woman’s suitcase, he was frustrated. There had to be a suitcase! If they didn’t have it, then who did? It had to be…

Oh. He ran out of the room and made his way quickly down the stairs. Of course! The murderer must have still had it! They had made a mistake, and that was all he needed to do. Find the suitcase, and he’d be one step closer to finding the murderer. 

He was back in the flat at Baker Street, pink suitcase in hand, before he realized he had left John stranded at the crime scene. Perhaps not the best thing to have done, he’d admit, but there was nothing to be done about it. He would just need to engage John again. He fired off a text. When it wasn’t responded to after a minute, he sent off another two.

Then he laid down on the sofa and considered his next steps regarding the case and the surprisingly interesting Dr. John Watson. He had found the man intriguing when Mike had brought him up to the lab earlier with the intention of introducing them, but there was more to the man than met the eye, and that was delightful in a way that he often didn’t find people. 

A little over 20 minutes after he had sent his texts, John strolled into the apartment, cane banging against the floor in counter to his soft-footed steps. A few minutes of inane conversation took place, including John’s doctorly concern regarding his rather unorthodox use of nicotine patches, but then he gave him his phone and he sent a text while John crossed over to the window and glanced out.

“So, I met a friend of yours,” John began and Sherlock scrunched up his nose.

“Friend?”

“An enemy,” John corrected himself, and Sherlock relaxed back into the couch.

“Oh. Which one?” he asked, interest getting the best of him.

“Your archenemy, apparently. Do people have archenemies?”John asked his tone a mix of incredulous and actual curiosity. 

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” he questioned, a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

“Yes, actually.”

“Did you take it?”

“No,” John replied quickly, clearly offended. 

“Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time,” Sherlock replied before biting back a smile. 

Oh, that was delightful. John had essentially been kidnapped by his overreaching, overbearing older brother and the man hadn’t been intimidated at all. He had refused any kind of bribe. Somewhat surprising, given his lack of funds and not knowing him enough for any kind of personal loyalty to be in effect. Just a part of his personality, it would seem. That was good. A man who couldn’t be bought when he was down on his luck was something to be commended.

Mostly, though, it was just nice sweeping the proverbial rug out from under Mycroft. John just needed to move in and Sherlock wouldn’t have to deal with a spy in his own home, in any form. Mycroft was so used to having control over a situation, and here stood an invalided army doctor that refused to back down on his moral principles. A knight in shining armor. He was just missing the white horse. 

Ha! Mycroft tried to sink his claws into John Watson and the man shook him off. That was fantastic! He could just imagine the look on Mycroft’s face when John had rejected his offer of money, and he was almost sad he missed the exchange. Yes, there was definitely more to John than met the eye. He needed him to move in!

“Who is he?” John asked, cutting through his thoughts.

“The most dangerous man you’ll ever meet and not our problem at the moment,” Sherlock waved him off. If Mycroft messed this up for him, he would have to take drastic measures against his brother. 

“Sherlock, I’m going to have to pass on the flat,” John suddenly began, and Sherlock felt his stomach fall through the floor before he continued. “It’s been quite an interesting day, and while I’ll admit I’ve enjoyed parts of it, and meeting you, I,” he stopped when his mobile pinged and Sherlock had never been so happy to hear a text message from a suspected murderer before in his life.

“Don’t answer that!” he called out as he swung his legs up off the sofa and jumped up. He pulled out the pink suitcase and John stared at it for a moment before looking at him. 

“Is that the case? The pink lady’s case?”

Sherlock couldn’t help the small smirk. “Perhaps I should say I didn’t kill her.”

“Do people usually think you’re the murderer?” John asked. 

“Now and then, yes,” he replied with a straight face.

John smirked and shook his head, and Sherlock counted it as a win. 

“Come on,” he said, and John followed him out of the flat. 

They made their way down the pavement and walked the five minutes to Angelo’s, which was placed rather conveniently near the address that had been texted from John’s phone earlier. They made their way in and took the table beside the window. Angelo came by, introductions and small talk were made, and then Sherlock turned most of his attention out the window to the front of the building just down the street while John ate. 

He was only half listening to John when he started talking about the lack of archenemies in real life. That people had things as basic as people they liked and didn’t like. Girlfriends or boyfriends. “Dull,” Sherlock replied.

“So you don’t have a girlfriend, then?” John asked and Sherlock managed to keep back the eye roll.

“Girlfriend? Not really my area,” he replied, his mind and gaze still focused out of the window.

“Oh right. Do you have a boyfriend, then?” John questioned. “Which is fine, by the way.”

That got his attention and he turned his gaze from out the window to the man sitting across from him. 

“I know it’s fine,” he replied.

“So you have a boyfriend?” John asked with a small smile and he shook his head.

“No.”

“Right. So you’re unattached, like me. Good,” John said, then licked his lips before he turned back to his food.

Sherlock watched him for a moment, mind racing. That was unexpected, both the conversation and the physical displays of interest. His stomach gave a somewhat pleasant flip, but he ignored it and pushed the feeling down. He needed John to share the flat and entering into any kind of romantic relationship would bury any chances of that happening. He didn’t exactly have a stellar track record for relationships, and as intriguing as John was, now was not the time to test it. No. Better to nip this in the bud before it escalated. 

“John, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and while I’m flattered by your interest,” he began, but John quickly cut him off with a mildly horrified expression on his face.

“No, no. I wasn’t...no. I was just saying it’s fine. It’s all fine,” the doctor said and Sherlock watched him thoughtfully for a moment. Perhaps he had misread the signs after all. It happened.

“Good,” he said. There, that was handled. Hopefully, he hadn’t made the situation worse by making the man feel awkward. He glanced back out the window, the conversation with John already swept under a mental rug, and he smirked at what he saw.

“There’s our man. Taxi. Clever. Why is that clever?” he asked himself as much as John, and when the taxi began to take off, he jumped up and called for John to hurry and come along, and they swept out the door quickly. 

He pulled up his mental map of London and the most likely route the taxi would be taking and took off, John right on his heels. He glanced back a couple of times as they ran. John kept pace, no cane in sight, and Sherlock let himself smile when no one could see. This was perfect! The adrenaline, the thrill of the chase, the potential for danger. This was what he needed to pull John in to get him to stay. For the flat, of course. Pull John in to stay for the flat. Though, he would admit that he was having more fun than he had had on previous cases where he worked alone.

When they finally caught the taxi he realized it was the wrong one. John, far from being annoyed about it though, laughed and touched his hand when reaching for Lestrade’s stolen ID. When it was time to run again, he did, with a smile on his face. Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and sent off a quick text. 

They walked into the flat at Baker Street, pulling off coats and hanging them on hooks, before collapsing against the wall. John giggled, and he couldn’t hold back a responding chuckle at the delighted sound. A knock at the door interrupted their laughter and Sherlock grinned. 

“Might as well answer it. It’s for you,” he told John, and the smaller man pushed off the wall with a questioning look thrown over his shoulder before he went to the door and pulled it open. 

Angelo stood on the threshold, holding out an aluminum cane, and John took it from him before turning to look at Sherlock with a look of awe. Sherlock smiled, pleased. _Yes_ , he wanted to say. _You don’t need it. You just need this._

Instead, he forced himself to stick to more practical matters, and he couldn’t help the hopeful tone his voice took.

“So about that room?”

John hesitated, eyes going between the cane in his hand and him, but before he could say anything Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat, completely flustered and worried about something. They all glanced up at the sound of something falling in the flat upstairs, and Sherlock bounded up the steps two at a time until he made it to the door and saw more of NSY than he ever wanted to see, especially when they were all crowded in his flat.

Lestrade was sitting in his chair, as comfortable as he could possibly be, the pink suitcase on the table beside him. 

“You can’t just break into my flat,” he growled in annoyance as he strode right up to Lestrade.

“You can’t without evidence. And I didn’t break-in,” the DI replied easily in the face of his anger.

“When do you call this then?” 

“A drug’s bust,” he replied, and Sherlock mentally cursed the DI. Drugs bust. He had to say drugs bust. Couldn’t he see that he was trying to impress the doctor? John wasn’t likely to want to move in with a junkie, even if it was a clean former junkie. He closed his eyes as John’s voice called out behind him. 

“Seriously? This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?” the doctor said, voice incredulous and Sherlock wanted to simultaneously bury himself in the proverbial sand and yell at the top of his lungs. 

“John,” he said quietly, stepping up close to the shorter man, eyes locked on his, and John stared at him for a long moment before a look passed through his eyes.

“No.”

“What?”

“You.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snarled, annoyed at the DI, the doctor, and himself.

They were in the middle of a serial murder investigation and he was trying to figure out why Rachel was significant. He didn’t have time to deal with meddling detectives, quietly judging ex-soldier doctors, his own convoluted feelings, eyeballs in the microwave, Mrs. Hudson’s nattering, and good god could everyone just shut up!

The steps creaked under the weight of a stranger, a cabbie, and Sherlock turned on the spot. Ah, yes. A cabbie. The taxi was clever. Far more clever than he originally thought. His phone pinged with a new text.

_Come with me._

He walked out of the flat, following the cabbie, and climbed into the back of the taxi. He needed to know. Why was he killing strangers? How was he getting them to take the poison? The cabbie was clever. He was playing him, Sherlock knew he was, but he had to know. The murderer promised him answers, and he would do what was needed to get them.

*

It wasn’t until he was in the middle of deducing the shooter of the cabbie that he looked over and saw John standing beside a panda car with flashing lights and realized exactly what had happened. A man with military experience. Nerves of steel. A strong moral principle. John Watson possessed all of those things. John had killed a man, he was sure of it, and yet he stood there surrounded by police officers clearly waiting for Sherlock. He had been fooled by one Dr. John H. Watson, which both rankled and intrigued at the same time. It wasn’t every day that Sherlock was caught by surprise by someone, and yet the diminutive doctor kept doing so. 

John looked away from his gaze and Sherlock waved off the DI, insisted he was in shock and didn’t know what he was talking about, though he was fairly sure the DI didn’t exactly buy any of what he was saying. It didn’t matter. He needed to talk to John, now, and confirm what he saw in the unassuming man. 

“Good shot,” he said quietly as he stepped up to John.

“Yes. Yes, must have been. Through that window,” he replied easily.

“Well, you’d know. Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t think you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case. Are you alright?” he asked and John glanced away before looking at him again. 

“Course I’m alright.”

“Well, you have just killed a man.”

“Yes. It’s true,” John admitted after a quiet moment, eyes locked on him. “But he wasn’t a very nice man.”

“No, no he wasn’t really, was he?”

“And frankly a bloody awful cabbie,” John justified.

“It’s true he was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took to get us here,” Sherlock agreed with a soft chuckle and John responded with his own, admittedly, inappropriate giggle. 

“Stop, stop. We can’t giggle at a crime scene,” John admonished amidst his own stifled laughter. 

They walked along in a companionable silence broken only by occasional giggles before John paused.

“You were going to take that damn pill, weren’t you?”

“Course not. I was biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”

“No, you didn’t. It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” John said.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, attempting to hold back the smile he felt tugging at the corners of his lips until he finally gave in to it. He glanced down, biting on his bottom lip to get his smile back under control before he looked back up at him. 

“Dinner?”

“Starving,” John responded with a smile. 

As they began to make their way towards a taxi and an excellent Chinese restaurant that stayed open late, a familiar and cursed black car idled near the end of the police circle and John reached out a hand to warn him it was the man who had kidnapped him earlier.

“Yes, I know exactly who that is,” Sherlock informed him, eyes narrowed as he approached his brother. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“As ever, I’m concerned about you.”

“Yes, I heard all about your concern,” he replied, eyes glancing briefly towards John.

“Have you ever concerned that we’re on the same side?”

“Oddly enough, no.”

“We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is childish. People will suffer. You know how it always upset Mummy.”

“I upset her? It wasn’t me who upset her, Mycroft.”

“No. No, wait. Mummy? Who’s Mummy?” John cut in suddenly.

“Mother. Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft,” he answered John before returning his attention to his older brother. “Putting on weight again?” he sneered, frustrated at his brother for deciding now was an appropriate time to interrupt his life. 

His brother made a reply, but he was already finished with the conversation and his meddling. He turned and began walking away. He heard John say something to Mycroft, but it wasn’t important and he kept going. A moment later John caught up to him. 

They got takeaway and went back to Baker Street to eat. They ate, and talked, and laughed, and Sherlock was sure John would take the upstairs room now. But when dinner was finished and they had packed up the leftovers in the fridge, John had left.

Sherlock frowned up at the ceiling as he laid on the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin. The past 48 hours had been far more interesting than he would have expected when Mike had first walked into the lab with an old friend. At best he had been hoping for a flatmate to merely share rent and space with. To ignore and merely coexist. He had not been expecting a small ex-army doctor with a danger complex to come strolling in. Someone who he could share the Work with. Someone who would want to share in the Work. And he was sure that John was interested in the Work. That was obvious. The sudden disappearance of his limp and need for his cane was proof enough of that. 

So why had John said no to the flatshare? He thought they had gotten on rather well, which was surprising in and of itself. They shared similar dark humour that was refreshing to find in another person. Yes, there was the moment of “a bit not good”, but surely that alone wasn’t enough to completely turn him off from sharing the flat. 

He was lost in his thoughts for what could have been minutes or hours. It wasn’t until his mobile began to ring that he moved more than an inch since he had first laid down. He didn’t bother looking at the caller ID and merely ignored the ringing. He let it ring out twice more before finally answering it. 

“Interesting, that soldier fellow,” his brother’s voice came out smoothly without waiting for a greeting.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” he asked, not even bothering to roll his eyes.

“I noticed that Dr. Watson left Baker Street an hour or so ago.”

“Yes, well, he needed to go home,” he replied.

“Will he be taking the upstairs room?”

Sherlock made the mistake of hesitating a moment too long, and before he could even respond, his brother spoke again.

“He’s interesting.”

“So you’ve said,” Sherlock replied as he pulled himself to a sitting position. His brother never repeated himself. Ever.

There was another moment of silence before Mycroft’s voice came over the line again.

“Do you think you’ll be seeing him again?”

“He said he would like to continue our acquaintance,” he replied as he saw no reason to lie to his brother. He would know as soon as he did and it was a waste of both of their times to bother lying.

There was another pause.

“I hope you enjoy your new flat,” his brother said. “Have a good night, Sherlock.”

With that, his brother hung up and Sherlock tossed his phone on the table. Well. That was fascinating. It appeared his brother was willing to overlook the fact that John hadn’t actually signed the lease.

He was willing to admit that for a brief moment he wanted to cut all ties from John Watson for the simple reason that his brother seemed to have approved of him in some way, but it was a fleeting feeling of brotherly pettiness and was gone in a moment. The mystery that was John Watson was more stimulating than any feud he might wish to further with his brother. And that was saying something, wasn’t it? 

Well, he just needed to lure him in. Hook, line, and sinker. Wasn’t that how that saying went? John kept evading the lures he had set and it made Sherlock all the more determined to catch the doctor. John was clearly an adrenaline junkie, and Sherlock would find ways to engage him in all his cases. Make John crave the Work, the danger it could be, and convince him that it would be so much easier to be involved if he just took the bedroom upstairs. 

That could work. 

*

“Sherlock, what were you thinking?” John grumbled as he cleaned the cut over Sherlock’s eye.

He flinched at the initial sting of the alcohol-soaked pad to the open skin, but then settled into stillness under his doctor’s competent hands. 

“I needed to bring him in for questioning,” Sherlock replied easily.

“Why didn’t you call me? Or wait for me?” John asked him, frowning in concentration and clear disapproval of Sherlock’s choices regarding apprehending suspects.

“No time, John,” he said.

“This is going to need stitches,” John announced, still frowning. He turned to the kit beside him and pulled out the necessary supplies. “All I have is topical anesthesia. It only needs a couple of stitches, though. Think you can sit still for that?” he asked, looking back up at him from his kit.

“That’s fine,” he confirmed and John gave a quick nod. He applied the numbing ointment before he threaded his needle and thread carefully.

“Damnit, Sherlock. You can’t keep doing things like this,” John growled, raising a finger to gently tap at Sherlock’s skin to check if the numbing agent had started to work. He felt the pressure from blunt fingers, but there wasn’t pain.

“You know, if you just lived here, you would have been with me and this most likely wouldn’t have happened,” Sherlock informed him with an arched brow- the one that wasn’t currently numb- and John narrowed his eyes at him.

“Sherlock…” John said, but instead of saying anything, he simply shook his head. 

Sherlock watched as he picked up his needle and thread, then set to work. A small flinch, from anticipation rather than pain, and John paused, eyes on him.

“Go on,” he instructed, and John went back to work. Two stitches went in and John was finished. Efficient and painless. He cleaned up everything, packed his kit back up, then sat still for a moment. Sherlock watched him as he leaned back into the soft red chair he had been perched in. 

“Seriously, Sherlock. This is the third time in two weeks you’ve run off without me,” John said, but then shook his head. “I mean, run off without backup. I’m worried you’re going to get yourself hurt beyond what a few stitches can heal.”

Sherlock glanced away from his friend. This was all a calculated risk. He didn’t go running off when there was a chance he could truly get hurt. He knew what he was doing and what he was doing was trying to get John to engage more. He knew it was childish, and perhaps a tad manipulative, but he was hoping if he could make John see how much danger and cases he missed by not living at Baker Street, then maybe he would change his mind. 

It had been two months since they first met at the lab in Barts and became colleagues in the Work and friends. He was confident in his assessment of calling John his friend, now. John had found a position at a clinic near his bedsit doing locum work, but he was so dreadfully bored there. It was obvious from the fact he was more often to be found sitting in the flat at Baker Street working cases or eating takeaway with Sherlock than at the clinic. 

Sherlock invited him along constantly. Found countless ways to engage him in the Work, but it never seemed to be enough to sway his opinion on taking the room upstairs.

John was a case that he simply couldn’t seem to solve. 

At first, John had been perfect because he was so common. He was a little interesting, what with the psychosomatic limp (long gone now) and all the signs of being an adrenaline junkie, but when it came down to it he was common. He’d pay his share of the rent, ignore Sherlock, and they’d do their own thing. He had also been fairly sure he’d do more than his share of cleaning thanks to his military background. So: perfect. 

Except, that wasn’t the truth about John at all. John called his deductions amazing, and truly extraordinary, and John turned down money that he definitely could have used to spy on him for no reason. They hadn’t been friends, then. They hadn’t even known each other. Yet John had already been loyal to him. 

But then John said “no” to taking the flatshare. Why would he say “no”? Why did he continue to say no?

He needed John to be his flatmate. He sat in that chair one time, two months ago, and Sherlock had filed it away as “John’s chair”. If John wasn’t there, then whose chair was it?

He could try and find someone else, sure, but then that someone else would be sitting in John’s chair, and that just wouldn’t work. 

The truth of the matter was becoming harder and harder to ignore. At the end of the day, he really just needed John.

It was an unfamiliar feeling. Needing someone. Wanting someone. And he did want him. As a flatmate and friend, yes, but the more time they spent together, the more the idea of John’s precise hands on his skin invaded his thoughts. Hands that caressed flesh for the purpose of pleasure rather than healing. The hair on the back of his neck rose as his mind supplied images and sensations and he suppressed a delightful shiver. He forced his attention back to the present and the man in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” he uttered and John’s brows arched up in surprise at the apology. Oddly enough, he actually meant it. “I’ll try to take more care. Make sure you’re there,” he continued and enjoyed the flush that rose in John’s cheeks. 

The other man gave a brief nod in acceptance of the apology and the promise to include him. Sherlock held back his smile.

“Thai?” he queried after a few moments of silence stretched between them.

“Perfect. You go clean up and I’ll order. Want your usual?” John asked and Sherlock nodded.  
He turned and made his way to his bedroom while John pulled out his mobile to call the Thai restaurant that was on his speed dial. The one near Baker Street, not the one near his bedsit, to place their usual order. Their usual order, because they were so often together and sharing meals and this space. He let the smile come to his face then as he closed the door to his room to take a quick shower and change.

*

“You know, this would be a lot easier if you just moved in with me,” Sherlock took the opportunity to say as he and John stumbled into the flat at Baker Street after a rather exciting case, followed by the decidedly unexciting long hours of paperwork that had to be completed at NSY.

“Sherlock, no. I already told you no, and I’ll tell you again. No, I am not moving in with you,” John said, a hint of fond exasperation in his voice.

“Come on, John, why not?” he asked. He had recently decided to switch to a more direct approach to try to understand why John wouldn’t move in. 

“Sherlock, there were eyeballs in your microwave,” John explained and Sherlock rolled his eyes. This had been John’s excuse the last three times he asked and it was getting tedious because he knew that it wasn’t the real reason.

“I told you, those were for an experiment.”

“So you say. And yet, there were still eyeballs. In your microwave,” John said with a small smirk that he hid behind the tea mug he sipped from. 

“What if there weren’t eyeballs in the microwave? Would you move in then?” he asked and John shook his head at him. He scowled and John laughed at him. 

“It’s nothing personal,” he began, and Sherlock listened to him explain his reasonings for what felt like the thousandth time. They seemed valid, on the surface level, but Sherlock knew they were all hollow excuses. They didn’t touch on the real matter at hand. The real reason John refused to move in. ‘It’s nothing personal,’ John had said, but Sherlock had become confident that it was indeed very personal. He knew it was personal for him, at least.

Instead of focusing on that, he switched tactics. John was nervous about the personal aspect between them. He would focus on the Work, instead. Impress upon John how important he was to the cases and to the people they had helped. 

So he laid out the facts. How quickly he was now able to solve cases with John at his side. How that time had proved crucial in several cases in just the past few months. John seemed skeptical at first, but Sherlock could see the moment he finally began to give in. To accept and believe what he was saying. That John was important to the Work, which was true. If John understood that he was also important to him, well, that was harder to read. 

After a quick negotiation of what was and wasn’t acceptable in the kitchen should John accept the flatshare, Sherlock put out his hand. “Deal,” he proclaimed. 

John stared at it a moment before he reached out and took his hand in his own. His warm palm pressed against his, short fingers clasped tightly, then released after a quick shake. 

“Well then. You should head back and pack up. If you hurry up, you could be ready to move in by tonight.”

John laughed at him, exasperated, but conceded to go if Sherlock accompanied him. As it was in his best interest to ensure the doctor moved in as quickly as he could, he agreed and they made their way out of the flat and to a taxi.

As they sat in the taxi on the way to John’s bedsit to pack up his possessions, Sherlock couldn’t help the smile that kept rising to his face unbidden Finally, finally, John had said ‘yes’, and he would be moving in. Months of trying to prove to John that it would be better for them to just live together. For the Work, yes, but also because he just wanted John with him. All the time. 

“What made you finally agree?” Sherlock asked, out of a mix of actual curiosity and a need to fill the silence. 

“Well, it will be infinitely easier keeping you alive if I just go ahead and live there,” John replied after a moment of silent contemplation.

“I find it somewhat insulting that you think I need you there to keep me alive,” Sherlock sniffed. 

“The data indicates that you need me there to keep you alive,” John shot back quickly, dark blue eyes slanted at him.

“I suppose I can’t argue with data,” Sherlock replied, lips quirked in a smirk, and John gave him a lopsided smile.

They fell back into a comfortable silence. After about ten minutes, their taxi pulled up to John’s address, and they climbed out after John tossed him the fare. They made their way up to the bedsit, and Sherlock followed John inside. 

He let his gaze sweep over the small room, then strode to the desk chair and settled into it. John watched him and when he leaned back and tossed one long leg carelessly over the other, John rolled his eyes and started to pull out his clothes and other possessions, and tossed them on the bed. 

Sherlock watched John as he worked, methodical and concise, folding and packing clothes, then books, then the small bathroom and the supplies within. 

He hated this small space. Its stale beige walls were suffocating and dull. It was the exact opposite of Baker Street, with its clutter and wallpaper. It stood as a counterweight against everything that John was, and it was past time for these four walls to give up their hold on the doctor. John belonged in Baker Street and very soon that’s where he would be. With Sherlock.

Together.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine. An idea had begun to form and as he watched John fill a couple of boxes and a suitcase he played out different scenarios in his mind palace. There were so many ways this could go wrong. He could ruin everything. It would be enough to just live together. He was sure it would be. 

When John was mostly finished, Sherlock grabbed a box and went down to grab a taxi for them to take back to Baker Street. John joined him a few minutes later and they loaded the boot before they climbed into the back seat.

They were silent for several minutes while Sherlock’s mind continued to run scenarios and he tried to convince himself that taking the chance his heart was telling him to take was too dangerous. But then, wasn’t that a part of what made their relationship work? The danger and the thrill. He looked over at John as they sat beside each other. Took in the profile of the doctor and soldier that had walked into the lab at Barts and slotted so quickly and easily into the Work and into his life.

He shifted closer to him, his knee knocking against his friend’s, and John turned to look at him. A smile lit upon his face with what could only be fondness and Sherlock returned it. Why not take this chance? He suddenly couldn’t come up with any of the reasons why this was a very bad idea while John smiled at him with that smile that rivaled the sun. When he finally said “yes” to the flat. 

He reached out and carefully placed his hand on John’s where it lay carelessly on his thigh. He let his thumb trace one of the thick blue veins that ran along the back of John’s hand, then tightened his hold while John stared at him, confusion clear in his features.

“You know, I’ve been considering turning the upstairs bedroom into a laboratory,” he began. After the conversation about the kitchen, it seemed like a good place to start. He could purchase a small refrigerator and freezer for any experiments and specimens he might need. Perhaps that wasn’t as good a place to begin as he thought, though, because the expression on John’s face went from confused to some expression he couldn’t read. He swallowed hard. “So I was just thinking maybe you’d like to share my room instead. If you wanted, that is,” he continued, but John stayed silent. He kept his eyes locked on their hands, unable to meet his eyes, and he felt his stomach fall through the floor of the taxi as he clung to John’s hand. “It was just a thought,” he said and hated how small his voice came out. 

Just when he was about to pull his hand away because clearly he had made a mistake, he had read everything wrong, John turned his hand over under his and threaded their fingers together. He looked up for the first time since he had started down this path and his eyes locked with John’s. 

“What about being married to your work?” John asked and Sherlock almost laughed. Of course, that’s what John would start with. Those words he had said at the beginning because he had a horrible record with romantic entanglements and had wanted John for a flatmate. Words he had said to throw him off, because he had known, even then, that a relationship with John would be all-consuming and it had been that these last few months even without the complication of physical intimacy. But he was done hiding what he really wanted from John.

“It turns out there’s room for more than just the Work in my life,” he stated and John bit his lip in an attempt to hold back his smile. It didn’t work.

Sherlock smiled back at him and covered John’s hand with his free one. 

They spoke for a few more minutes before John leaned against him, his head on his shoulder. He turned his head to breathe in the scent of John, so familiar for something that he didn’t get to completely immerse himself in as often as he would like, and smiled against the silver and gold strands.

“I’m ready to go home,” John sighed into the air, and Sherlock nodded his agreement.

They sat in the back of the taxi, silent but content, for the rest of the ride to Baker Street. When they arrived, they climbed out and grabbed John’s possessions from the boot. Sherlock pulled a key out of his pocket and handed it to John.

“This is yours,” he said with a small smile, and John put down his boxes to take it from him. 

John slipped the key in and unlocked the door, then gathered his boxes again and they made their way up the seventeen steps to 221B. They dropped off the boxes and suitcase just inside the door and John glanced at him before he took a step closer. He reached around him to push the door to the flat closed, his body pressing against him as he leaned forward. Another step closer and Sherlock took a step back, eyes locked on John as he crowded him against the door. The heat between their bodies and in John’s eyes was scorching as the smaller man reached up to run a thumb along his cheek. Sherlock’s hands fell to his hips, holding lightly, thumbs circling absently.

The moment seemed to stretch between them until Sherlock couldn’t wait anymore. He leaned down at the same moment John pushed up on his toes and their mouths met in a surprisingly gentle kiss. Soft, warm lips came together in tender exploration while John’s arms wrapped around him and pulled him closer. He tightened his hands on John’s hips and John hummed appreciatively in the back of his throat. Sherlock smiled into the kiss and a moment later John pulled away. 

Dark blue eyes scanned over his face while John’s fingers threaded through his curls. He could have purred at the sensation, but somehow he managed to hold it in under the pleasing ministrations. John smiled up at him, but his stomach suddenly rumbled and his eyes widened in embarrassment before a giggle escaped from him.

“I’m starving,” John divulged and Sherlock chuckled.

“So I hear.”

“Let’s order some takeaway. Have dinner in. I’ll unpack everything tomorrow,” John said before taking a step back, though he didn’t stop playing with his hair.

“I was rather hoping you’d like to see the bedroom,” he replied with a quirked brow and a small smirk.

“Oh, I do. And I will. But I need to eat, and so do you. I have plans for you, Sherlock Holmes, and we’re going to need our energy,” John asserted with a gentle tug to his hair and his toes curled in unexpected pleasure at the sensation. Sherlock felt the blood rush to his cheeks in a furious flush at the same time it went rushing downward. Well. 

“Chinese?” he asked.

“Chinese,” John confirmed with a smile before he pulled him down for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> This was the original fic I began when I first received my FTH prompt, but as it went along, I ended up switching to John's POV. This had been sitting in my documents folder and Sherlock just kept prodding me to finish it, and I finally gave in because DAMN he's persistent. I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, kudos and comments are treasured and adored. 💜


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